


The Radio Star

by completementfou_avoue111



Category: Twilight Series - All Media Types, Twilight Series - Stephenie Meyer
Genre: 1980s, American History, College, Multi, Radio
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-28
Updated: 2021-01-18
Packaged: 2021-03-11 02:02:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 20,466
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28377402
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/completementfou_avoue111/pseuds/completementfou_avoue111
Summary: Fall, 1986: at a small, public, liberal arts college on the coast of Western Washington, two loners find their way together across the airwaves of the school's student radio.
Relationships: Edward Cullen/Bella Swan
Comments: 5
Kudos: 9





	1. Sheena is a Punk Rocker

**October 1, 1986**

**11:45 PM**

**Bella**

The door to the on-air booth of Western’s student radio station looks like it ought to lead to a closet full of cleaning supplies. The whole station is kind of a dump; located in the basement of Arntzen Hall, the route to the studio is a maze of stairs, corners, and dead-ends until you get to the set of four rooms that make up the little radio cooperative. I’ve been down before, but never into the room where I’ll be calling the shots. I have a bag stuffed with cassettes and an armful of records. I had to meet up with the prior hour’s producer on his smoke break in order to be let into the locked building, seeing as it’s nearing midnight and campus locked up at seven.

“You have your air name picked out?” The producer asks. He said he’d stick around for my first show, but after that, I’d be on my own until I found someone to be my producer. I can’t think about that too hard because it makes my stomach all watery. I’m not a real social butterfly and although I’ve been to broadcasting club meetings, I don’t know anyone. 

“Am I not allowed to use my own name?” I ask. I’ve been so worked up about being asked to sub for the overnight show that I haven’t really considered much else.

The producer shrugs. “Most people don’t.”

He’s right. Most of the on-air DJs have weird names like “New Yorkie” and “the White Rabbit” and “Jazzy Jay.” It clearly meant something to them, to be able to be anonymous. I figured that nobody would be listening to me, so what would it matter if I just signed off as Bella? 

But then again… the idea of anonymity is appealing. Not that anyone really could recognize my voice without my face present, let alone my name… but I could probably think of something on the spot. Swan Song? Bellingham Bella? Ugly Duckling? My palms are itchy with ambivalence.

“So you’ll go there. The mic won’t be hot just yet, Eric’ll put on a song before he heads out. Once the song is done you’ll press the button for the mic to go live. Just try not to stutter or anything.”

“I thought the producer had to cue to go live.”

“You really want me in that room with you?”

The producer is a big guy. He’s a senior and he’s pretty serious about radio. I can’t remember his name but I think it starts with an M. Mark? Michael? I only know him peripherally through the student radio scene. He was railing about Don Imus and Rush Limbaugh at the first broadcast club meeting I went to last year. I didn’t talk to him then, but I liked the guy. I’m guessing the room must be pretty tiny if he doesn’t want to go in with me to help me with the switchboard.

“I guess not,” I say. I shuffle the records a bit in my hands. There’s a window on the door to the on-air room, and a red box above the door. It’s supposed to say ON-AIR, I think, but it looks like the bulb is burned out.

“You’ll be fine. You’ve covered shifts before, right?” The producer asks. I really ought to get his name. It’s rude that I don’t know who he is.

“Not from in the booth,” I say. “How do I put people through to the air? If I get any calls?” While I’ve been present in studio during shows, I’ve never been allowed in the booth. I only worked as a producer, running and grabbing music as the host asked for it. I’m worried about how to respond to song requests.

He laughs at me. “You won’t. Tomorrow if you come in before your show, I can show you a bit more about the switchboard, but trust me, nobody’s even listening after midnight.”

His comment stings but he’s probably right. The library closed nearly two hours ago and everyone still up has a Walkman or a boombox. 

“Are you going to get the light fixed?” I ask, nodding at the light above the door. The producer shrugs.

“It’s on my list.”

“And I sign off just before five?”

“Yeah. Just keep an eye on the clock. Play what you feel like playing. That’s the beauty of this time. You get to do what you want.”

KWWU, the student radio station, is playing softly throughout the rooms making up the tiny station. The producer and I stand in silence, listening as the guy in the timeslot before me wraps up his segment.

“I’m New Yorkie, you’re listening to KWWU, Western’s student radio, goodnight!” He chirps. The synth-heavy beat of Berlin’s “Take My Breath Away” roll in following Eric’s signoff. I shudder inwardly; the song was weird in  _ Top Gun _ and way overplayed. I’m struck with a sense of awesome gratitude that I get to have a shot at the radio-- that I get a chance to play music that I wish I could hear when I tuned my FM channel to KWWU. The radio reception in Bellingham is terrible for most stations that play good music, unless I want to crank up the tunes of worship music or new school country, I have to listen to the student station. Now I get to be a part of it. I’m giddy again.

“That’s your cue,” the producer says. “Remember, just try not to stutter.” He gives me a little push on the back towards the door, and I stumble forward only to be cracked in the face with the door as Eric the DJ swings it open.

“Ow!” I shout, dropping my records.

“Oh, shit!” Eric says. He’s got a stack of his own records and his own messenger bag of cassettes, but he sets those aside to help me sweep my records back in order. They’re all out of order, but it can’t be a big deal since I have about two and a half minutes before I have to be on the air. 

“Sorry,” Eric says as I clutch the stack to my chest, trying to ignore the smarting sting across my nose where the edge of the door struck me.

“Forget it,” I say. I push past him into the room and shut the door behind me to take stock of my surroundings. The room is tiny, only big enough for one desk with the switchboard and another desk with a microphone and telephone. I set my stack of records on the desk with the microphone and take a calming breath.  _ It’s only a radio show, it’s only a radio show, _ I repeat in my head like I’m one of those yogis. I can do this.

The 45 on top of the stack catches my eye-- “Sheena is a Punk Rocker” by the Ramones. I love this song. I was only 11 when it came out as a single, but my mom hated it, which made my dad love it on principle. I remember rocking out to it in the front of his police cruiser every day when he picked me up from school. He played it for me on our record player at home until I knew all the words and would torture my mom by encouraging me to sing it loudly and frequently. I feel a pang of nostalgia, and all at once I know what my on-air name is.

“Take My Breath Away” fades out and I flip the switch that lights up my mic.

“Good night, good morning, good day to all you listeners out there,” I say. It’s like I’m possessed by the muse of radio. I’m a nymph, and this on-air booth is my realm. I feel unstoppable. “I’m Sheena, your host from midnight to three AM. You’re listening to KWWU in Bellingham. Let’s get to the music!”

I slap “Sheena is a Punk Rocker” onto the record player and throw the switch to put it on air. 

“One-two-three-four!” Joey Ramone sings, and the show is underway. I let out a little sigh at not being live on air and busy myself cueing up the next cassette to play. I want to play only old school stuff, but there’s been such good music released lately that I have to play some modern stuff. I pick out the Pet Shop Boys song “West End Girls” and follow that up with “Another One Bites the Dust,” then “Walk Like an Egyptian.” I round off the set with “Superstition.” I play a local ad and then retake the mic.

Though the hours fly by and I realize my own mental timing of the show is pretty off, considering how much I wanted to play and how much I’m going to have to skip, I make it a point to ask any potential listeners to call in with a request. I want to interact with my audience. That is, if I even have one. The only chance of making this substitution close to permanent is if I make an impression with listeners.

Before I know it, I can see the producer in the window signaling to wrap it up. I haven’t come close to getting through everything I wanted to play.

“Well, folks, it looks like we’re at the end of my set,” I announce. “I’ll leave you here with a favorite of mine. Until next time, this has been Sheena. Good night, good morning, and good day.”

I play “Sitting on the Dock of the Bay” by Otis Redding and gather up my affairs. I’m on cloud nine-- I just hosted a radio show all by myself. I’m so high on the feeling I almost want to change my major to broadcasting and pursue radio as a career.

Outside the air booth, the producer greets me, looking wiped. He has a paper cup of coffee and he smells like he just had a smoke; if I had coffee and a cigarette right now, I’d be so wired people would think I was manic, but he just looks like he’s toast. 

“I’m not usually working this late,” he says. “So I’m beat. I’m going to get out of here.”

“Was it good?” I ask.

He shrugs. “It was fine.”

Like that, my mood is cut in half. I’m still happy, don’t get me wrong, but I’m not walking on sunshine anymore.

“Just fine?” I press. I’m in the mood to be showered with compliments. I look him over and even consider asking him back to my dorm, roommate be damned-- I haven’t had sex since the month before freshman year started, and he’s handsome enough that I almost want to give him a shot. 

“You stumbled a bit,” he tells me, shooting back the last of his coffee. “You were slow to cue songs, you played weird shit, you sounded a little hoarse when you talked at times… I don’t know what to tell ya. It was fine.”

With that, I feel my lady bits clamp shut, effectively icing him out of my sex life. Oh well. He’s not exactly my type anyway, although from my limited experience, I can’t say I have a type. 

“So…” I don’t really know what to do with myself now that the show is done. It’s a little after five in the morning. I can go back to my dorm but I don’t know if I’ll be able to go to sleep. 

The producer rubs at his red eyes. “I’m staying here. My main show starts when the next guy shows up.

“Oh,” I say a little awkwardly. “I’ll just… clean my stuff up and get going myself.”

He smiles half-heartedly, showing off a deep dimple in his left cheek. Gosh, he’s adorable. Too bad I’m too proud to ever let myself bang him.

As he’s leaving the grubby studio for another cup of coffee, I call out to him. I’m embarrassed I don’t remember his name but I’m going to ask him anyway.

“I don’t remember your name,” I say.

“Emmett,” he grunts in response, his back to me. ‘M’  _ sound! _ I’m such an airhead sometimes.

I put the school’s cassettes and records back where in their places. I’m standing up, about to grab my backpack and head out when I’m struck by something and thrown to the ground. I bang my knee against the bookcase that holds the school’s boxes of records and mash it into the grubby rug on the floor. It smarts. My leggings have a thin little rip across where my knee made contact with the bookcase, and I whip around to find someone to be angry with, but I only catch the door of the air booth slamming shut. I sit awkwardly on the floor for a minute, rubbing my knee, before I sigh and pick myself back up to walk back to the dorm.

It’s pretty lousy to be a sophomore still living on campus, but I got voted into a spot on the Western Washington University dorm advisory committee last year, which means my room is free, so I cope. My roommate Lauren is our hall’s RA and a total killjoy, but we have a sort of agreement between the two of us. I don’t rat her out for indulging in the weed and booze she swipes from freshmen and she lets me keep my cat.

It’s Nessie, my sweet, weird kitty who greets me when I get back to my room. Lauren called her a monster when we moved in, and the weird little thing likes to join me in the shower… hence the name Nessie. Like the Loch Ness Monster. It suits her better than Princess, which was the name the Whatcom Humane Shelter gave her. She winds around my ankles while I try not to trip over her. I set down my bag and scoop her up to climb into my top bunk.

Nessie settles down on my stomach and purrs herself to sleep while I lie awake, replaying my time on the air in my head. I can’t sleep; I’m stirred up from the high of being on air, the thrill of having my own air time. I get to come back and do this again when any regular DJ is too hungover to host their show, or when one has an exam or an outside commitment. With my foot in the door this way, maybe one day I can host my own show.

I decide that sleep is just not going to happen for me before my earliest class. I keep my Walkman stashed under my pillow, so I slip the headphones on and listen to the tape I have on deck-- Purple Rain by Prince and the Revolution. I loved the movie and I’ve listened to the tape so much that I’ve had to wind it a few times. It warbles a bit but it’s still true enough to the music, so I cope. “When Doves Cry” is my favorite song because it reminds me of how painful my parents’ divorce was. Music was the only thing that kept me together when my world fell apart. It kept me company when I was the only kid in school with divorced parents. When the tape ends, I fumble around in the crevice between my thin mattress and the bedframe for the few cassettes I keep within reach. I blindly insert the first tape I find and slide Purple Rain into the empty crystal tape box, promising myself I’ll put it back in its correct box when Lauren gets up. 

The new tape isn’t one of my favorites-- Shabooh Shoobah by INXS. I don’t remember why I stuck it up here. I listen to the first track before I switch off my Walkman. I’m bored, awake, stuck in place by the cat on my chest. Nessie snores peacefully, mocking my insomnia. It’s unfair, that a cat as cute as she is can be such a turd.

I squint at my watch; it’s 6:45. I have class at 8. I’ll have to try to squeeze a nap in before my shift at the deli-- my advisory board position pays for my room, but I still have to cover my meal plan and tuition. It’s not so bad a job, but Lauren complains sometimes that our room smells like cold cuts. I can’t help it if I bring home stolen slices of turkey to give to Nessie every once in a while. It’s nice to feel like I’m providing for someone, even if that someone is an eight pound frowned-upon-in-residence-halls cat. 

It feels too early for a shower, and I don’t want to disturb Nessie, so I fumble around with my Walkman’s AM/FM feature. I freaked out when Dad got me the Walkman with auto-reverse for my birthday. I was content to continue using my budget Walkman that I picked up second hand, but he splurged for the newest release. I try in earnest to search out a Canadian signal, since Bellingham is only 20 minutes from the border, but no dice. Once I got a signal for a station playing rock and roll and listened to the new Siouxsie Sioux album for a good half hour before the static got too crunchy. This morning, I’m full of the holy spirit of radio. I decide to tune to KWWU and listen to Emmett’s morning show guy.

At 6:48, a new style of bassline kicks in. It has me nodding my head in bed, moving my shoulders when the drum starts. The guitar has me wiggling my hips as minutely as I can. I recognize the song-- “Psycho Killer” by the Talking Heads. I forgot all about this song. It’s bitchin’. When David Byrne starts moaning after the first chorus, I can’t restrain my little dances anymore. The bunk bed is positively rocking while I rock out to radio that’s actually  _ good _ . 

“Would you STOP?!” Lauren groans below me, kicking my bed. I feel the jolt of her kick right in my butt. It’s hard enough to lift me off the mattress but not the worst I’ve received from her by far. 

“Sorry,” I giggle, not sorry at all. I tone it down to listen to the guitar solo after the verse in French. This song makes me want to take French so I can understand it. After the song fades out, the morning DJ takes up the mic.

“You’re listening to the Master, DJ E.A.,” the DJ’s voice is smooth and untroubled over the airwaves. “Good morning Bellingham. I’ll be taking you on a ride through the radical tunes of some of the great musical acts of whenever, because I’m the boss and what I say goes. Get it?” He plays a sound effect of a spring being tweaked, a sharp “boi-oi-oing” echoing in my headphones. 

“It’s nearing the top of the seven o’clock hour and if you’re listening to me right now, all I have to ask is, why? Go back to bed, you wastoids.” He’s nervy, calling listeners names. I snort a little at the  _ Breakfast Club _ reference and Lauren groans underneath me.

“I gotta put some music on for you so I can go make myself a cup of coffee. Or better yet, get my producer to make me that cup. Yo, Emmett! Where’s the master’s cup of coffee?”

I’m shocked to hear Emmett’s voice on the air. “Make it yourself, bozo. I’m not your secretary.”

“With tits like yours, I could’ve sworn you were,” the DJ snarks back. I choke a little at his response. I had no idea you could say words like that on the air. It’s too funny to be completely scandalized, though; if you’ve seen the pecs on Emmett, you’d know that the guy kind of has man-boobs. In a muscly way.

“Watch it,” Emmett responds. The DJ chuckles darkly.

“Alright, alright, don’t let the steroids go to your brain. We already know they’ve attacked one head of yours--”

“Hey!”

“I kid, I kid. Alright, let’s get the music going. Who wants to hear the Village People? Nobody? Great!”

Seamlessly, the song “Macho Man” by the Village People starts to play. I’m trying to hold back my laughter so as to not bother Lauren, and I’m crying with the effort. This guy is  _ funny _ . This guy is cool. This guy is everything I never imagined radio could be. 

He bleeds the song out while tuning up “Rock the Casbah.” It’s great. It’s eclectic. I listen to DJ E.A. banter a bit with Emmett and eventually doze off, their voices keeping me company.

Thankfully, Lauren’s 7:45 alarm jolts me awake. My class is all the way across campus to the south; I’m glad I didn’t put on pajamas when I got home, because I can just grab my backpack and bolt. I give Nessie a kiss goodbye and jump into my LA Gear sneakers. Mom got me a pair with lime green accents and they go with everything. I consider taking my bike but I don’t want to take off my headphones, so I just leg it across campus, listening to the morning show all the while.

I get to Miller Hall with only a minute to spare. It sounds melodramatic, but I feel genuine sorrow at having to turn off the radio. There’s about a minute and a half left on “Born on the Bayou” and CCR always makes me think of my dad. I switch my Walkman off and stuff it into my backpack, pulling out my composition book to take notes on ancient civilizations. I blindly feel around in my bag for a scrunchie to tie my hair back; when I got it cut over the summer, I’d hoped it would look like Jennifer Beale’s in  _ Flashdance _ but the perm didn’t take completely, so it looks pretty lame when I don’t wash and blow dry it every day. Pulling it into a high ponytail only works for about half of my head, so I usually just clip it to the side. 

The notes for ancient civilizations come easy for me. I haven’t officially declared my major yet, but on paper I’m technically a comparative cultures major in Fairhaven College with a focus on literature across cultures. It sounds smart and well intentioned, but I really only put it down because I liked social studies in high school. I think I’d rather do something more involved with writing than reading, but I have until spring to really figure it out.

Class ends at 9:30. My next class starts at 10:30. I’m almost always starving after class, since I try to sleep as much as I possibly can which means skipping breakfast, but all I can think about today is catching the end of the morning show. I pull my headphones on and walk around campus aimlessly as I listen to DJ E.A. play Kiss and old school Depeche Mode. He bridges gaps between songs that don’t blend well together with little sound clips from TV and movies-- my favorite is Eddie Murphy as Gumby on Saturday Night Live, indignantly shouting “I’m Gumby, dammit!” I could listen to this guy all day.

Somehow, I make my way to Arntzen Hall. There’s a short half-wall by the bike rack where some people are smoking, and I plunk myself down to listen to the last few minutes of the show. When the chords of “Shrink” by Dead Kennedys wrap up, DJ E.A. takes the mic back up.

“Well, that’s been a show. It might not’ve been a good show, but it was mine,” he says. He plays a short track of applause mixed with boos. “Thanks for tuning in. I’m the Master, DJ E.A. and I’ll be back tomorrow!” The epic thrash of Anthrax rolls in as he says “tomorrow,” and I’m bopping my head along to “Madhouse.”

I’m enjoying the music but I’m also keeping a loose eye trained on the doors to Arntzen. I watch people trickle in and out, wondering which of the guys leaving could be DJ E.A. The Anthrax track ends and in rolls some weird music that sounds vaguely British and also a little rasta. It sounds like if Bob Marley attended Oxford and was backed by the Clash. I don’t recognize it. The new DJ introduces it as something called “ska.” 

“That was Madness, and I’m the White Rabbit,” she chirps. I like her voice, all high and soft. “It’s a good day today; those of us with our moon in Libra should expect fortune and positivity. Make sure to watch out if you’re a rising Pisces, though. No good deed goes unpunished. Anyway, here’s some gospel!”

The track that plays next isn’t gospel-- it’s the Cure. I love this girl. 

Bit by bit, my life becomes more and more connected to my radio Walkman. I listen to it during my breaks at the deli, on my bike ride to and from work, in between classes… even when I’m walking to the bathroom in the middle of a class. I keep it in a fanny pack that Mom sent me from a trip to Japan. She’s a flight attendant, which is a great job for her. It’s painful that she wasn’t happy living at home with me and Dad, but we get along much better now that she’s left her second husband and is a working woman. 

I try to incorporate my favorite pieces of my favorite radio shows into the odd shifts I pick up at the station, but nothing really seems to get people to engage. It seems like every time I take up the mic for another host, everyone listening just stops. No one calls in for me, not even requests. I sub for random shows, sometimes in the afternoons, often overnight, when necessary. Sometimes I treat the air like a journal, talking about how lame it is that I don’t have a real family to go home to for the holidays. How Dad told me he’d be working on Thanksgiving, so I’m planning to just stay in Bellingham and eat cold pizza in my room. I already promised to cover the week of Thanksgiving for a number of hosts-- my schedule, taped to the door in the studio that leads to the room with the coffee maker, lists 20 hours of air time that week as “Sheena’s.” I air out my grievances with Lauren and my excitement over my grade on a paper in classical studies. I play a lot of schweet music, too.

One night in early November, I’m alone, subbing in the studio with only a can of Tab to keep me company. I’m feeling bitterly lonely. Before I can think better of it, I ask the listeners to call in.

“If anyone has a request, please call in,” I say, as usual. “Or you can call in if you don’t have a request. Just to tell me that you hate the show, or something. Let me know.” 

I guess something in my voice is extra depressing, because, ten seconds later, the phone light flashes. I’m frozen. I’ve never had a caller before.

“Hello, caller, you’re on the air,” I announce. I’ve practiced hooking the mic up to the speakerphone; my stomach is ice at the prospect of actually talking to someone on air, though.

“I hate the show,” the caller says, then hangs up. There’s radio silence for a full minute before I can compose myself enough to respond.

“Well, thank you,” I say. “Hope I continue to disappoint. Here’s Paul McCartney.”

I play “Temporary Secretary” and relive the call. The glorious, golden seconds of answering the call; the sweet pause before the caller answered; the disappointment at hearing that the caller hated the show; the disbelief that it was over, that it ever happened.

I transition the song into “Blackbird” and relive the call again. I recognized that voice. It was a pretty voice for a man, but I can’t place where I’ve heard it. I can’t think of anyone I know who actually listens to my show, so it’s no easy guess. 

The caller haunts my thoughts until November 21st, when I’m called by Emmett and asked if I’ll take over DJ E.A.'s morning spot for the foreseeable future. “You’re the only one I know who is as obsessed with this station as he is,” Emmett says. “Plus you moan on air all the time about how lame your life is. So I figured you might be free.” I don’t hesitate to say yes. 


	2. Girl From Ipanema Goes to Greenland

**November 21, 1986**

**9:45 AM**

**Edward**

I have two hands on the switchboard; one dialing down the volume of “New Day Rising” by Husker Dü, the other amping up “These Boots” by Megadeth. It’s a strange mix for a minute, but then it’s all Megadeth, and it’s good. When I’m in the zone like this, it’s like I’m one with the radio. My headphones melt away, the stale smell of the basement studio becomes less cloying, the chill in the room is less frosty… it’s all background noise. The only things that keep me tethered are the clock, the light for the hot mic, and the lights on the phone that signal if I have a call waiting. 

Emmett knows not to interrupt me when I’m in my groove. He comes into the on-air room periodically, when I’ve asked him to ahead of time, or if he has a record that I was looking for earlier. I’m bobbing my head along with the music and my hand is dancing over the switchboard while I think about what I want to say during my next air break. The phone has been flashing that I have a call all hour, but it’s my last hour on air and I don’t want to take any requests or talk with anyone. This is my zone, my arena, my kingdom. I don’t have to listen to anybody.

…Except for Emmett, who is rapping lightly on the door. I wave him off and swivel my chair away from him. I’m thinking about whether or not I want to play the Cyndi Lauper song that was so popular a few weeks ago, and if I have any commentary about it when Emmett opens the door and pulls up a chair. He’s talking to me but I have my headphones on and the volume up as loud as it can go, so I can’t really make out what he’s saying. I point at my headphones and try to shoo him away again but he yanks my headphones down from my ears to my neck.

“Hey!”

“Cue up another song,” Emmett says. “I’ve got a fax for you.”

“Can’t this wait until after the show?” I gripe, but I’m already pulling out Dark Side of the Moon to play “Money.”

“No.” Emmett approves the song choice and leaves the booth. I transition the music and then step out, holding the door to the booth open with my foot.

“What’s up?” 

Emmett runs a hand over his neck. He’s taller than me, which isn’t super common, so I sort of feel like a kid waiting to be scolded by a parent or teacher. He hands me a fax and looks awkward.

“I’ll let you read it, then we can talk after the show and make arrangements.”

My stomach drops at this. I can only imagine the worst case scenario-- my parents’ death by plane hijacking, a home invasion killing my grandmother, our dog going rabid and morbidly wounding my mother… so I’m fatalistic. Sue me. Instead, it’s the last thing I would’ve expected.

_ Ed- Tried calling your house, your radio station, no dice. Mom and Dad are unreachable in Ghana. Tim left. Baby in distress. Please come to Chicago. It’s not looking good. -Es. _

My sister. Her note is clear enough to tell me that it’s nothing like I imagined, but she’s having an emergency. Below her sign off is the number for Northwestern Memorial Hospital. I’m trying to wrap my head around it all-- Tim, her husband, just up and  _ left? _ How? Why? She’s pregnant with their first baby and he just left her? I can’t believe it. I was in their wedding and everything…

“Um, Edward, the song’s about to end…” Emmett reminds me. I look up, dazed. I still have to sign off my show, but Esme needs me in Chicago. I can’t think about everything all at once; my ex-girlfriends all said I had a one-track mind and they’re right. 

“Can you handle it for me?” I ask. “I have to call a travel agent and book a flight, like, right now. My sister’s husband ditched and she’s super pregnant and our parents are out of the country…”

Emmett is caught off guard, but he’s a good man on any team. He opens the door to the on-air booth and steps in, leaving me to grab my backpack that I left on the tatty sofa in the main room of the radio station. I jot down a quick note on the legal pad we use by the door as a sign in sheet that I’ll call Emmett when I get to the airport and we’ll figure out what to do about the show. I work the station every weekday morning from 6-10; filling my slot is a big responsibility.

My show is the most popular show on our station which is a huge feat for a junior. Before my growth spurt in high school, I was the short geek in CB Radio club, always messing around with tunings and listening to weirdos broadcast random shit from their little corners of the world. While I marched along in marching band, enduring abuse from upperclassmen about being a boy playing the flute, I dreamed of sharing my own views on music with the world. I loved music; I obsessed over the Billboard charts and I listened to the countdowns whenever they had them, of the top songs of the year. When Billboard named Howard Stern the best album-oriented DJ in America, I took note and started scrambling over the frequencies to tune in to his shows.

My knowledge of music and contemporary DJs got me in with Emmett. My lack of an involved social life made me a perfect substitute for students at the station who were too hungover or stoned to come in to work, and I got my own weekly time slot by the end of winter quarter, freshman year. Sure, it was a three hour segment on Friday evenings that nobody ever listened to, but it was something. I continued to sub in whenever I could until I convinced Emmett I’d make the morning show my priority. I stayed in Bellingham all summer, cleaning the station and running bitch errands to prove it. And I still had to put in two more quarters of grunt shows and emergency shifts. Now I own the mornings on KWWU. I’ve never missed a show. I still pull the odd sub shift.

Though I’d planned to stay in Bellingham for Thanksgiving break, it’s just not in my constitution to let Esme suffer. Poor Es. I love her to death, but she’s the unluckiest person I’ve ever met. I speed walk to my Volvo 262C that I got as a graduation present from my parents and drive to the house I share with some guys from school to call a travel agent. 

Since it’s a Friday morning, I’m able to get through to an agent and book a flight from Bellingham International Airport to SeaTac, then a flight from SeaTac to O’Hare. I have twenty minutes to pack, so I dump my backpack out on my bed and scoop in clothes from my dresser willy-nilly. I race to the airport and get checked in within ten minutes of boarding, so I use the payphone to call my sister’s house and try to reach her. She doesn’t answer, which doesn’t come as a surprise. I left the fax with her note on my bed, so I have to dial information and get the number to Northwestern Hospital to see if I can get through to her. The nurse on the phone gives me the run around and I’m checking my watch every other second to be sure I don’t miss boarding, although how I could miss boarding in a terminal this tiny I’m not sure. Finally, I get a hold of a nurse who says Es is being rushed in for a C-section, but it’s time to board so I have to hang up on her. 

On the flight, I try to do the math about how pregnant she is, but I’m not really good at that stuff and I haven’t been the most attentive brother. When she got married after my senior year of high school, I figured that was the end of our relationship as I knew it, especially with her moving to Chicago. Of course that stung a lot at the time. I thought the world of Esme. Still do. When our dad joined Doctors Without Borders a little more than ten years ago and our mom began following him wherever he went, Es took control of the house. She cooked better than Mom but was less anal about cleaning. She let me stay out late as long as I made good grades. She convinced Mom and Dad to let me switch from Bellevue Public Schools to Seattle where there was a CB radio club. She got us a VCR and bought me condoms when I started getting an interest in girls-- the only time I remember her being overbearing was when she was hammering into my head the importance of not knocking anyone up before I finish college. She’s just a stand up girl all around, and I love her like no other.

When we land, I have an hour before my connection, so I use the payphone to call the hospital again. It’s not good news.

“Are you the husband?” The nurse asks me when I call.

“No, the brother.”

“And you’re on your way to come see her?”

“Yeah, my flight leaves in an hour. I’m in Seattle.”

“Let me put the doctor on to speak with you.”

I check my watch again waiting for the doctor. Esme got me this watch for my birthday in June-- a black Casio G-Shock that’s water resistant up to 200 meters. It’s a huge step up from my green Swatch watch. It makes every outfit look tough and dressed up.

“Mr. Platt?” The doctor is on the phone, calling me by my sister’s married name. I decide to go with it.

“Speaking.”

“Things aren’t so good.”

My heart drops. “What do you mean? Is Esme okay?”

“Your wife is stable, but the baby-- I can explain more when you get here. Your wife got to hold him. He died in her arms.”

I feel a lump in my throat. It’s strange; just like that, I was an uncle and now I’m not, without even realizing the change one way or the other. Poor, poor, Es.

“Can I talk to Esme?”

“Let me see what I can do.”

The line goes quiet for a moment, then I hear my sister’s soft voice, crackly and broken and sullen.

“Hello.”

“Es, it’s Edward.”

“Oh.” I hear a high pitched sound, kind of like a keening, then her voice is watery, catching on her breath as she cries.

“I’m so sorry.”

“Thank you.”

“I’m boarding my flight now. I’m on my way. I’ll be there before you know it.”

“Every minute I know it,” she says. “Every minute that my baby isn’t in my arms. He looked like you, you know.”

I don’t know what to say to that. I’m overwhelmed by the weight of responsibility on my shoulders right now. Us Masen kids, we hold ourselves together pretty well. Now it’s my job to hold up my sister as she falls apart. It’s a big task, and failing isn’t an option. We’re blood, me and Es. I love her.

The flight to Chicago is four hours. I spend that time fretting about missing classes. I’m no truant, but I’m not the most steadfast of class attendees. When we land, I call the dean of the College of Humanities and tell him about the family emergency in Chicago. He promises he’ll talk to my professors and get my absences excused. In return I promise to call him when I get stuff with Es figured out. As I hang up I’m struck by how much there is to get settled and how little of it I have any preparedness to do. The only thing I do consistently in life is the radio. I work part time at the video rental store on Railroad Avenue but that’s more goofing off than a real job. I barely pay my rent on time. 

I catch a cab to the hospital and get the idea to get a thing of flowers for Es at the gift shop. I think about a card but decide better about it-- all the cards here are wishing people quick recoveries. Something tells me that she’s not going to just recover from losing a husband and a baby thanks to a card.

The nurses direct me to Esme’s room on the third floor. I don’t bother knocking, I just go in, kind of like I did when I was a kid and we lived back home. The room is all white wallpaper with pastel blue and pink flowers. It’s frilly and girly and so incongruous with what happened just hours ago. Esme is lying on her side in the bed, facing away from the door. She looks like a sad lump under the covers. Closer to the door is an empty bassinet, and it’s about the saddest thing I’ve ever seen.

“Hi Es,” I say. I drop my backpack down by her bed. I don’t see a chair so I just sit down on the bed with her. It’s awkward but I put my hand on her shoulder. I don’t know what to do, so I just pat it like I might pat a dog. 

Esme rolls over gingerly to look at me. She looks like hell. Her face is puffy, nearly twice its normal size. Her eyes look greener than mine for how red they are. Her hair is sweaty and tangled and gross, and while I’d normally rib her for it, now is clearly not the time.

“These are for you,” I try. I kind of shove the flowers into her chest, and I’m surprised to feel her belly, still big and swollen. I thought when you had a baby it just… goes away. Esme still looks pregnant.

She fumbles with the flowers and tries to push herself up so she can sit up. She winces and I try to help her, grabbing her wrists and tugging forward but she cries out like I’m hurting her. I drop her arms like she’s burned me and scramble away to give her some space. In the chaos the flowers fall to the floor, the little plastic sac of water at the base bursting and creating a mess.

Esme looks down at the floor then back up at me. I have my hands up like I’m being held at gunpoint. I must look a huge mess myself, because Esme lets out a watery laugh and I feel a little calmer. If she can laugh, then maybe this whole mess can work out okay.

She gets settled and spells out what happened for me. Tim’s a trucking coordinator, working mainly with companies out east. His job meant lots of work trips, only some of his trips weren’t entirely work related. Esme’d been feeling sick for days but still going in for work at the grocery store where she was a checker, only to return home yesterday to the apartment all packed up and a note from Tim saying their lease ends December 1st. This morning at work she fainted, and either the stress of the fall or the illness she’d been fighting earlier in the week made the baby come early, and his little lungs just weren’t developed enough to hack it in the air. She’s crying and I hold her to me, letting her tears get my polo shirt all wet.

Her doctor tells us that she’ll be kept at the hospital overnight but discharged in the morning. Esme turns to me when he leaves, tearing up again.

“I don’t know what to do or where to go,” she says. I run my hand through my hair. It’s longer than it’d be if Mom were in the country; she always made me get it cut. Esme never policed my hair. As long as I kept it clean, she said it was my choice to cut or grow it.

“We can go apartment hunting tomorrow,” I suggest.

“I’ve never lived alone. I’ll die if you leave me,” Esme says. She can be really melodramatic at times, but right now I kind of believe her.

“Well, I guess you could come back to Washington,” I say. “Mom and Dad’s house is open. They won’t mind.”

“I can’t be alone,” Esme restates. “You can’t leave me alone. I have nothing.”

I pause to think about our options. No doubt about it, we’re a team… but she’s always been the leader. I don’t want to be the boss.

I spend the night in an uncomfortable chair, petting Esme’s hair when she wakes up to cry. It’s awful. In the morning the doctor says there’s nothing physically wrong with her, but that the scar from her emergency surgery will be sore for a while. I wheel Esme out to the curb when she’s discharged. She waits in the wheelchair, her sock feet dangling, while I step inside to call a cab.

It’s the saddest thing, seeing those green socks against the footrests of the wheelchair. It’s worse than the empty bassinet, because that meant the end of something. This is only the beginning. Esme has her whole life ahead of her, and those sock feet just mark the start of that life without a husband and without a baby. When the cab arrives and Esme walks through the snow in those socks, the switch in our roles hits me hard and all at once I know what I have to do.

An idea takes shape in my head. We’ll drive her car to Bellingham and she’ll stay with me and the guys until Mom and Dad get back from Africa. If she doesn’t want to live with my roommates I could get her set up in an apartment and stay there with her. Places in Bellingham aren’t plentiful, but the student newspaper always has a few rooms listed. 

At her apartment, I survey what remains from her bastard husband. He really cleaned the place out. Esme is standing next to me, dazed, her face still super swollen. There’s one chair to sit on in the whole place. Even the bed is gone.

I get Esme situated in the chair and bring us both a cup of water from the tap. Esme doesn’t drink hers but I down mine in a few gulps.

“Here’s what we’re going to do,” I say. “We’re going to grab all that you’ve got here and then we’re driving to Bellingham. You’ll stay with me for a bit and then we’ll figure out if you want to get a place of your own up there or if you want to go down and live with Mom and Dad for a little. But you’re coming with me. I’ll take care of you.”

Esme takes a drink of the water. She makes a face but doesn’t respond for a little while.

“We’re leaving tomorrow morning. We’ll get a hotel tonight so you have a bed to sleep in.”

“Can you get me something stronger than this?” Es asks, gesturing at the water. I’m not sure that’s a good idea but I run to the liquor store anyway. The guy at Lynden Liquor in Bellingham is a real hardass about being the legal age to buy booze, but the guy at the little mart on South Vincennes doesn’t look at me twice. I almost want to buy extra to take back home, but I don’t. I bring her back the bottle of whiskey, and Esme drinks directly from it. It seems to calm her down, and I pack up her stuff into a few plastic bags without much comment from her.

I get us a room at a roadside motel off of 1-90. The desk sells maps, so I buy the maps that will get us out of Illinois, through Minnesota, Wisconsin, North Dakota, and Montana. Once we get to Idaho I should be good, I think. The only thing that I wish were different is the car. Esme’s got an ‘81 Fiat Panda and I already hate driving it. It’s such a girl’s car. 

The motel room has only one bed, but when I was little and afraid of the dark, Es always let me crawl in with her. It’s nice to have the bed warm with the heat of another body, even though we don’t cuddle close together. Esme needs her space. She  _ still _ looks pregnant, although the swelling seems to go down bit by bit. When I ask, she tells me that her face is still puffy because she was pushing before they had to cut her open. I don’t want to admit that I’m not entirely sure what it was she was pushing, or how, so I try to put it out of my mind. It’s too gross to think about.

In the room, I use the phone to call Emmett and let him know I’m heading back to Bellingham. He’s not home, but his weird roommate takes the call and leaves him a note that I’ll be back by Wednesday at the latest. The dude is seriously a freak, all quiet and tortured all the time. I’ll try calling Emmett again when we stop tomorrow night.

We drive all day Sunday listening to the dying radio frequency from Chicago. I’m so zonked from the road that I forget to call Emmett when we crash at a Sixpence Inn outside of Oriska. Esme turns on Dynasty and we fall asleep with the TV on, me above the covers and Es tucked underneath. On Monday, we grab breakfast at a truck stop and I watch with jealousy as Esme dumps some of the whiskey in her orange juice.

On the road, I tune the radio to KWWU’s call number, just to see if we can get a signal. We can’t. We make it to Cardwell, Montana by nightfall and check into an Econo Lodge. Esme buys a pack of Camels from the cigarette vending machine in the lobby as well as a box of cherry Nerds for me. I don’t smoke anymore-- I quit when I got my morning radio spot. I like my voice to be as crispy fresh as possible and smoking made me too phlegmy. Esme smokes and I crunch through the candy while we watch Magnum PI. 

We set an alarm for five in the morning and when it rings, I remember that I’ve forgotten to call Emmett and check in on the show. He doesn’t know that we should be getting to Bellingham Wednesday, which’ll let me take back the air Thursday morning. Before Esme had her crisis, I’d told Emmett I’d be doing my show on Thursday-- Thanksgiving-- but I don’t know if he’s made new plans or anything. It’s too early to call him now, since we’re an hour ahead of Pacific Standard Time. I’ll just have to try him again tonight.

We speed through Montana all Tuesday and stop for the night in Wallace, Idaho. In the morning, by some miracle, we manage to catch a light signal from KWWU an hour into our drive. I struggle to understand the DJ through the thick static that breaks up the broadcast every ten seconds or so, but I don’t think I recognize the DJ. The voice is female. I know I’ve heard it before but I don’t know where; it’s not that weird sophomore Alice who calls herself the White Rabbit and it’s not that icy chick that Emmett drags into the studio with him sometimes. I wonder if it’s a girl in one of my classes.

“We’re getting close to wrapping up the morning show over here… more from me, not to worry… much air time I have this week it’s like I’m building my own communist block.” 

Instead of static cutting her off, it’s the President’s voice that silences her.

_ “... Ignore the facts of history and the aggressive impulses of an evil empire--” _ static cuts off Reagan’s speech, but it sounds a little too loud to be signal static. It sounds purposeful-- but then Reagan is back:  _ “Remove yourself from the struggle between right and wrong and good and evil!” _

And then New Order is on the radio, their song “Blue Monday” from a year or so ago. The electronic synth is upbeat and poppy and  _ so not my show. _ I’m gripping the steering wheel tightly, but out of the corner of my eye I can see Esme nodding to the music. 

The song fades into “Love My Way” by the Psychedelic Furs-- it’s not a smooth transition, whoever is hosting is  _ not _ good at radio-- but Esme grabs my arm and I turn to look at her.

“I love this song,” she says. I want to yank my arm away and hiss about poor taste in radio, but I’m taken aback by her face. She doesn’t look miserable. She looks… nearly happy.

The steady beat of Plastic Bertrand comes through the airwaves more clearly than the two previous songs. Esme is positively bopping along to “Ça plane pour moi” and singing along with the vocalizations. The set is longer than I typically go for; it runs into the next show, but Alice isn’t yanking her tunes off the air, as she’s done to me a time or two when my set overran. Finally, when the chords of “Take on Me” fade out, the DJ takes back the mic.

“This has been your morning show. I’m Sheena, and I’ll be stepping out for a quick nap break for the next show so I can get back on the air this afternoon. I know. I am your leader now. Trust the process.  _ Hare hare. Hare Krishna. _ You know the drill.”

Esme is snorting at this DJ’s chat. I’ve never felt more disgusted in my life. This is  _ my _ show. I can’t even put my finger on what it is I find so irritating about this DJ, but if my show were a physical thing I’d rip it from her hands and piss all over it, marking it as mine. How dare she proclaim that  _ she _ was the leader of my show?! 

“What can I tell you? It’s all true, Bellingham. I’ll see you this afternoon. This is Sheena, signing off.” She turns off the mic without much feedback, which is good, but then Spandau Ballet’s obnoxious song comes on, sighing vocals over dreamy soundscapes that Esme likes but I can’t stand. 

“True!” Esme sings along. 

“You like this shit?” I can’t help but ask.

“What, Spandau Ballet? They’re fine, I guess--” 

“Fuck, no. The DJ! She sucks!” I shout. Esme is taken aback.

“Calm down, Edward,” she says. “She’s funny--”

“Funny?! She’s  _ ruining _ my radio!”

Esme looks at me seriously for a moment, then bursts into peals of laughter.

“You’re kidding me,” she says. I turn and stare her down long enough that her mirth disappears and she looks a little concerned.

“Watch the road,” she orders. I do, but I glare at her from the side of my eye when I know she’s looking.

She finally sighs and chuckles a little at me. “You’re such a big primadonna for being such a little brother.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” I grump, but she just chuckles some more and shuts her mouth. We don’t talk as we cross the Idaho panhandle. 

When we stop for gas in Spokane, Esme buys me a Super Pretzel and a fruit punch flavored Slice, which I guess is her way of trying to apologize for making fun of me. I try to push it away but the pretzel is hot, and the cool soda sounds good for washing down the salt… 

“Get me a pudding pie too and we’re even,” I call out to Esme as she waddles back to the little food mart after delivering me the hot pretzel. She flips me off without looking back, but brings out an entire box of Hostess pudding pies for us to eat on the road when she’s done going to the bathroom.

From Spokane we cut through Lincoln County, up to Okanogan where we hit traffic due to heavy snowfall. I’m moping and whining about it, but the radio signal to KWWU is clear and good and all seems pretty choice… until “Major Tom” by Peter Schilling fades out and “Vacation” by the Go-Gos starts up. It’s a bad one-eighty. Bad radio. I tolerate the Belinda Carlisle new-agey racket for the song’s three minutes, ready to get on with the music, but the next song played is “He’s So Strange.” Still the Go-Gos. When “Girl of 100 Lists” starts, I realize that the DJ isn’t just on a Go-Gos kick-- the DJ is playing the entire damn Vacation album.

“Good afternoon Bellingham,” a familiar voice pipes from the speakers.  _ Sheena. _ “How does everyone feel about the Go-Gos?”

“I. Fucking. Hate. The. Go-Gos.” I grit out, growing angrier and angrier at the bumper-to-bumper traffic. Who the fuck lives in Okanogan anyway? Why are there so many cars here?!

“All of you lady-loving music people, I’ve got you covered. It’s an all Go-Gos all the time kind of day. I’m starting us off with Vacation, since it’s about to be Thanksgiving vacation,” Sheena croons. I growl at the radio which has since started playing “We Don’t Get Along.” Clearly we don’t, me and this dumb Sheena chick.

Esme shoots me a puzzled look. “Didn’t you buy me Beauty and the Beat for my birthday this year?” 

“Yes, but--” 

“You told me they were the best girl’s group you’d heard since the Ronettes, even though I insisted the Supremes were better.”

“Esme--”

“You need to relax, Edward. Just let the beat take you away.”

I inhale deeply through my nose and try to take her advice. She’s right-- I did buy her the Go-Gos first record for her birthday back in May. But that was before this dumb Sheena chick ruined them-- and radio-- for me.

By the end of the record, we’ve made it out of Okanogan. We stop again for gas near Ruby Mountain halfway through Talk Show, the most recent Go-Gos record, then take the 20 down to Sedro-Woolley so we can transfer to I-5 and get up to Bellingham. Sheena just finishes introducing Beauty and the Beat by the time we pull into Bellingham International Airport so I can pick up my car. I’m positively vibrating from how much caffeine and sugar I’ve consumed today; the box of pudding pies is half empty and I can’t bring myself to look at the armful of Dr. Pepper cans Esme is scooping up.

“Why’s it international? This place barely has a runway,” Esme comments as she gets out of the passenger’s seat.

“Canadian flights,” I respond. “No more talking. I just want to get home and go to bed so I can do my show.” I also need the bathroom in a bad way. I’m a sensitive guy and I don’t like doing my business outside of the house. 

I check out my car and groan; there’s a parking ticket on my car, which I crumple up and stuff into my pocket. I’ll deal with it when I detox off all this car crap I’ve been running on for the past four days.

“I’ll follow you?” Esme asks. I nod.

“I live on Garden and Myrtle. Just ask anyone if you get lost or lose sight of my car. Let’s get going.”

I speed all the way home from the airport, making the 20 minute journey in just under 13. I unlock the door and race in, thankful that my two housemates aren’t here for the holiday weekend. Our mildewed bathroom welcomes me back like a castle would a king. 

I finish up in the bathroom and realize that Esme isn’t here, and the house is dark. Neither Tyler nor Michael left any lights on when they headed home. I peer out the window to see her standing across the street in the light snowfall, gazing down the hill at the harbor. Seeing her see the water makes me feel kind of like I did when I first came home to this place after my first morning shift: like I’m right at home.

“Es,” I call out to her. She turns and waves at me before turning back to the view of the water. It’s only just after 8 but it feels like midnight; the sky is dark and the days are shorter in Bellingham than Chicago or even Seattle. 

“Come inside,” I call again. “I gotta go to bed.” Esme crosses the street with her suitcase and gasps when she sees just how wrecked I am with fatigue. 

“Poor little bunny,” she says. “Let me tuck you in.”

“I’ll sleep on the couch, you can have my room, we’ll just--” I’m babbling as I open the door to my room and drop her suitcase on the floor. My bed is still a mess with stuff from my backpack, but Esme pays it no mind. She pulls a blanket off the ground and walks me to the living room couch, pushing me onto the couch. She pats my head and shoulders, directing me to lie down. I’m still babbling but I don’t know what I’m saying. 

“Yes, I’ll turn the radio on for you,” she says in response to something I say. I feel my consciousness slipping, like I’m in a fever dream. I hadn’t realized just how exhausting the whole business of driving could be if it’s all you’re doing. I fight sleep for a while because I know there’s something I need to do, someone I need to call, but then Esme strokes my face and I stop the inane chatter. She turns on the house radio that’s next to the couch before she goes to settle herself in my room.

I can barely make out the broadcast, but as I’m totally wiping out, I can hear Sheena bidding listeners a good evening, promising she’ll be back on tomorrow bright and early. 

_ We’ll see about that, _ I think, and then I’m dead to the world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title song by the B-52s off their '86 record Bouncing Off Satellites. All musical opinions expressed by Edward are his alone.


	3. Paul Revere

**November 27, 1986**

**Thanksgiving**

**5:00 AM**

**Bella**

I’m shivering in the air booth of the radio station as I put the needle down on my own personal 45 of Frankie Valli’s “Grease.” The week has been stressful with all the shifts I’ve signed up to cover, plus the morning show, plus my deli job, and I just need to hear someone singing about solving problems and seeing the light-- preferably Frankie Valli. It’s good to just lean back in the chair and nod along to the music. The mellow but uptempo tunes almost make me forget that my alarm woke me at 4:40 AM, but they’re not enough to make me forget that I fell from my bike when it skidded over some black ice on my ride in. My aching hip and skinned elbow will remind me of that for days to come, I’m sure.

The song fades out, but I’m not done with the record. I take up the mic.

“Let’s hear that back, shall we?” Nobody calls in to complain. Nobody is listening. Sigh.

I replace the needle where the song starts and blow on my fingers to warm them. I’m pretty sure OSHA wouldn’t tolerate a room this cold, but nobody really pays too much attention to them and none of us are earning any money here. 

I’m more tired than I want to admit, and being thrown from my bike really did a number on me. I consider putting in my new cassette of the score from _The Fly_ but decide against it. Instead, I load Elton John’s album Honky Château and decide to run it all the way through, only stopping for my designated air breaks. I intro the album and head into the other room to brew a pot of coffee even though I’d prefer a can of Tab or Coke for caffeine.

At 6:41, I feel more awake and settled than before, ready to be on air until 12:30. Seven full hours on the air is grueling but I want to get pumped up for it, so I play a favorite of mine: “Edge of Seventeen” by Stevie Nicks. I stand up and shake my hips to the riff at the start of the song, pointing at different, random spots in the tiny booth with each hit of the cymbals. I double check that my mic is off before I coo along with Stevie and that white winged dove.

And then I nearly jump out of my skin when someone yanks my headphones off my head. I bite back a scream as I whip around to see a totally bodacious guy glaring at me like I’ve just called his mother a donkey. Omigod is he hot. He has wild reddish hair and a square jaw that is boasting an incredibly red thicket of stubble. He’s tall and lanky and he kind of reminds me of Nicolas Cage in _Valley Girl_ but with a bit of Tom Cruise in _Taps_ and Matt Dillon in _The Outsiders._ Behind him is a pregnant lady. She’s pretty in a very soft, Farrah Fawcett kind of way, though her face is rounder. The guy and the lady look related but I don’t think I’ve ever seen them before.

“What. Are. You. Playing. On. My. Show.” The guy demands. I’m breathing hard because I am just doing my job and here I am, accosted by two strangers before it’s even 7AM. I stammer a bit but I can’t force words out, my shock is so great. Even though his voice is harsh, it’s smooth and practiced. He’d be great on the radio.

“Get out of the fucking booth!” The guy demands. He starts to push at my arm and I’m struck by a sense of indignance. Did Emmett get someone else to cover the morning shifts and forget to tell me? Who does this ginger think he is? 

“Watch it, bozo,” I warn, knocking his hand off my shoulder. “I’m hosting this show. You want air time, take it up with the producer.” I spin back to the switchboard and pretend to adjust levels while the guy splutters behind me.

_“I_ host the morning show,” he insists. “I’m DJ E.A. And I’m here, so clearly you’re not needed. Give me the headphones.”

I scoff at him. “Um, what gives you the right? Buddy, you’re late for the morning show. I was on time. And I need to cue up the next song, so please step away from the booth and I’ll come talk to you when you can get a handle on your attitude.”

I whip back to the board and set the next cassette in the second tape deck. 

“You can’t play that on air,” DJ E.A. says loudly. The pregnant lady hushes him as I turn back around to raise an eyebrow at him.

“Excuse me?” I ask rhetorically. “I can play all the Stevie Nicks I want. I’m hosting this morning show.”

He blanches at this. “No, no, no! You’re ruining my show! I never--”

_“Ruining_ your show!” I cut him off. “I think you’ll find that I’m saving it! You dipped on the show and I swooped in to host--”

“Hey,” the pregnant lady says softly. Both DJ E.A. and I start at her intrusion. “The music stopped.”

I flip around and realize the tape has run out-- we’ve been broadcasting dead air for a bit. I hiss at DJ E.A. as I hit play on the Fleetwood Mac tape.

“Nice job, wastoid,” I say. “You made me play dead air.”

“If you’d been paying attention--”

“If you hadn’t distracted me--”

“Stop,” the pregnant lady says. Her voice is thick and wet with tears. Both DJ E.A. and I turn to look at her and see her softly crying to the opening lines of “Landslide.” 

“Oh no,” she says, then cups her hands over her breasts. “I think my milk is coming in.” 

All at once, I realize she’s _not_ pregnant-- she’s recently given birth. Spreading over her chest are two wet spots that look like pit stains.

“Oh, honey,” I say. I pull the chair out from the air booth and push it towards DJ E.A., who helps her sit down. “Do you need a towel? Or my sweatshirt?” I pull my sweatshirt over my head and pass it to her before she can answer. She cries a little harder but accepts it, wiping her face with it before pulling it over her head.

DJ E.A. looks totally out of his element and uncomfortable. We stare hard at each other, trying to figure the other out.

“I’m going to cue up an album. Then I’ll come out and we can… figure something out. Capisce?”

DJ E.A. nods at me. I go back into the booth and put in my other new cassette: the soundtrack to _Stand by Me._ It’s a great collection of oldies, though I’m sure DJ E.A. will find something wrong with it.

Outside of the air booth, DJ E.A. has helped the lady onto the tatty sofa. He’s sitting next to her with his arm around her. I don’t really know how to approach them; our introduction was bizarre and I don’t even know what E.A.’s name is, let alone his relationship to this poor lactating woman. I only know a bit about lactation because one of the girls I went to high school with had a baby right before our senior year. Our school didn’t know what to do about her, so Emily just brought the baby to school with her. She nursed the baby in the library, which was my home away from home, and we got to know a little bit about each other. It was nice to have someone who felt as unattached to the social world of high school as I did, but that’s not to say that I was a huge loner. Just a big one.

“So,” I say. I don’t have anything to follow it up with. All I know about hosting the morning show is what Emmett told me: that DJ E.A. had an emergency and would be away from the radio for the foreseeable future. 

I started subbing for him on Monday even though I’d already agreed to sub for Eric’s show that ended at midnight while he went home for the holiday. A guy named Sam was subbing for the White Rabbit’s show while she went home, but he changed his mind about staying in Bellingham for the long weekend and asked me to take over his substitution, which essentially made me queen of the radio starting Wednesday and running through Sunday, which was fine by me, since the deli would be closed from Thursday through Sunday. Yesterday, after I worked my closing deli shift, I packed up half the leftover turkey cold cuts, a pound of sliced pepper jack cheese, a jar of pepperoncinis, a jar of olives, and a jar of half-sour pickles to stuff into my backpack for my own Thanksgiving feast today. I had half a loaf of real marbled rye left that my coworker at the deli made for me, and a bag of the new flavor of Doritos. The way the cards fell I’d be having a lonely Thanksgiving, but at least I’d have my spicy pepperoncini gas to keep me company in the cold radio booth.

And, like a bad girl, I ate the whole jar of pepperoncinis last night.

“Emmett said he’d get someone to cover my show,” DJ E.A. says. “I tried calling him a few days ago to let him know I’d be back today.”

“I haven’t seen Emmett since Friday,” I say. It’s true. I came into the station to pick up a set of keys and get the morning rundown, then Emmett dipped and has been MIA since, despite classes still being in session on Monday and Tuesday.

“Fuck.”

“Edward, don’t swear.” The girl admonishes DJ E.A.-- Edward. _DJ Edward A._ I wonder what the ‘A’ stands for.

“Well, I’m already on the air,” I say. “So I’ll just finish the morning show. Then I’m covering half of the midday show before Shelley takes it up early and does the afternoon.”

“Who?” Edward asks. 

“Shelley. She’s a senior, she started covering shifts around the same time I did.” 

“I can’t believe they’re letting amateurs on air.”

“Hey!” I say indignantly. The breath released with my expression hangs in the frigid basement air. Without the sweatshirt on, my skin is all goosebumpy and I rub my arms to try and warm up. I skim my scraped elbow and hiss at the sharp flash of pain. I absently turn my arm around uncomfortably to look at the torn skin.

“That looks painful,” the girl on the couch says. 

“Yeah,” Edward jumps in. “You should probably go get that looked at by a doctor. Why don’t you go now, and I’ll take over the show?”

“Yeah, right,” I snort. “I’m hosting the morning show until _my_ producer, Emmett, tells me I’m relieved of duty. I don’t even know who you are.”

“I told you,” Edward grinds out. “I’m DJ E.A. And Emmett is _my_ producer.”

“Sure,” I agree, “and I’m Queen Elizabeth.”

The girl on the couch laughs a little. “Edward, give her a break. Let her finish hosting the show and you can try to call your friend later.”

“I also don’t know who you are,” I say to the girl. She smiles a little half smile at me.

“I’m Esme. Edward’s my little brother. He just rescued me from Chicago.”

“What a gentleman,” I say, “even though you don’t act like one, barging into my studio like that. I could have been on the mic.”

Edward glares at me. “You weren’t.”

“But I could’ve been.”

“But you weren’t.”

“But I--”

“Do you have a commercial you need to do?” Esme cuts me off. A wave of guilt washes over me; I’ve been neglecting my hosting duties in favor of arguing with Edward.

“I’ll be right back,” I agree, but Edward is shaking his head.

“I’ll do it,” he snaps. 

“I’ve got it,” I insist, but he’s standing up.

“Do you want an air break or not?” He argues. A break from being _on_ does sound nice. I make a face at him as he passes me by to open up the booth. He makes one back at me. I feel like a little kid with this dumb argument. He’s so irritating, but in that second that he was by my side, I got a whiff of his cologne and it smelled really good. Like, make my knees weak good. It’s discombobulating, to feel so juvenile while also thinking with my lady bits.

“Come sit down,” Esme says to me. 

“I shouldn’t,” I say. “I’ll go back to the booth when the commercial is over. Then when I get off the air at 12:30 we can call Emmett and figure out what’s going on for the rest of the week.”

“Won’t he be at Thanksgiving dinner?” Esme asks. 

“At 12:30?”

“Most people start eating around that time,” she says. I’ve never heard of people eating so early in the day, but then again, my mom was so anti-tradition that I didn’t eat a true Thanksgiving meal until after she moved out and my dad scored us an invite at a neighbor’s house. We never did Christmas, either.

“I wouldn’t know,” I admit. Esme frowns at me.

“You’ve never done a Thanksgiving feast?” I scoff a bit at the word ‘feast.’

“I have, just not that early. We weren’t very traditional.”

“I might have guessed that,” Esme says. “Considering you’re here and not with family.”

I feel my guard go all the way up. “My dad’s a police officer and has to work, and my mom is out of the country for her job until January. So I don’t really have a choice.”

Esme regards me thoughtfully. I want to cringe under her analytical gaze; shouldn’t Edward be done with the commercials? I ought to have set the sound system up for the whole station when I got in, but I figured I wouldn’t need the whole little station to be playing the radio if I was going to be the only person on air until afternoon.

Suddenly, the speakers in the room flare up and I can hear Edward-- over the radio.

_“So glad we’re back to normal, B-ham. Here’s something special, just for you.”_

“He’s Back (The Man Behind the Mask)” by Alice Cooper flows through the airwaves, and I am burning with rage.

The door to the air booth swings open and out walks Edward, smug as all hell. If his sister wasn’t right beside me, I’d slug him. I have half a mind to shove him out of the way and change the set mid-song but Esme puts her hand on my arm, and although the touch is gentle it pins me to the couch with its familiarity. It hits me that I haven’t seen my mom since last April. I haven’t been hugged by a mom-like figure since, either. Some part of me that I’ve been ignoring has clearly been hungering for affection that’s been missing since my parents’ divorce.

“You never told us your name,” Esme says. I’m startled, but the high emotions of everything make it hard for me to remember our introduction clearly.

“She’s Sheena,” Edward says. 

“My name is actually Bella,” I inform him. Then it hits me: _he knows who I am!_ If he knows my air name, he’s listened to my shows before, so clearly I’m _not_ an amateur like he says I am!

“I was just inviting Bella to join us for Thanksgiving,” Esme says. Edward and I turn to her with our jaws dangling. What now?

“Um, Es, I don’t have anything for Thanksgiving in the house,” Edward says. “And you know… That thing. Um. That thing about me that I don’t really--”

“Oh, right,” Esme laughs. “Edward’s a vegetarian.”

“Shh-- stop it!” Edward says, slicing at his throat with his hand. I bust a gut laughing. Why wouldn’t he want me to know that he doesn’t eat meat? Esme looks at me conspiratorially and says in a mock whisper, “He doesn’t like to tell girls. It makes him seem less macho.”

“Shut up!” Edward says. He looks pained. I can’t wipe the smile from my face. I notice that the song is wrapping up, so I pat Esme’s hand on my arm and make a beeline for the air booth. 

“Hey!” Edward says as I pass him and shut the door behind me. I pull from the stack of tapes in hand and work quickly to wind a special tape to the perfect song. Before I set the tape in the deck, I play a quick snippet from my tape of quips-- Julie’s mom saying “Bad karma, dear,” from my secret favorite movie _Valley Girl._ After the quote clip, I put on the latest record from Huey Lewis and the News. It only came out in late August, so maybe it’s something Edward hasn’t heard yet, but given his devotion to the airwaves, I doubt it. “Hip to Be Square” starts playing, and I hope Edward takes note of the subtle dig at him. He’s handsome but a real jerk. It’s a little humanizing to know he’s insecure about being a vegetarian.

I started curating tapes of little sounds and quotes from my life when Mom got her flight attendant base changed from Seattle to Orlando. She sent me a portable tape recorder out of the blue-- the kind that journalists use-- and told me to record parts of my day and send it to her so she could carry a piece of me with her wherever her job took her. She promised to do the same but didn’t really uphold her end of the bargain for more than a year. I kept on making tapes. They’ve come in real handy since I’ve started hosting on the radio.

I feel rather than hear the door open, but I ignore Edward’s presence throughout the song, instead focusing on winding tapes just so. I let the track fade out and allow for a second of radio silence before I press play on side A of Kate Bush’s Hounds of Love tape. The thick synth chords over the animalistic drum beats sound great out of nowhere on “Running Up That Hill.” Nobody can argue with the power of Kate Bush… or so I think. Until I turn around and see Edward staring murder into my face.

“No. Kate. Bush. On. My. Show.” He says in a voice that would maybe sound dangerous if he wasn’t a vegetarian.

“I don’t play Alice Cooper on my show,” I say, then push past him back to Esme. 

Edward follows me, about to argue, but Esme’s look of discomfort on the couch silences him. She’s gingerly pressing against her breasts and belly. I wonder where her baby is. When she sees the two of us dimwits looking uncomfortably at her, she straightens up and puts on an unconvincing smile.

“So, Bella, what do you say to Thanksgiving with us?” Esme asks again. 

“Um…” I look over at Edward. He’s watching his shoes, not looking at me. I don’t really want to spend time with someone who actively dislikes me, but I also don’t really want to spend the rest of the day in the dorm. Lauren, who does actively dislike me, took her portable TV home with her for the holiday break, so it’ll just be me and Nessie and the radio.

But then Edward looks up at me, and I don’t see hatred or annoyance, even. He’s unguarded for a second, and he looks incredibly young. I almost want to touch his face… but I don’t. His eyes, I realize, are super green and framed with thick lashes that are more golden than his coppery hair. He’s not just hot; he’s beautiful.

“Well,” I start, “I have to feed my cat after my shift. Then I’d love to do Thanksgiving together.”

Edward groans, but I continue. “You said you didn’t have stuff, but I work at the deli down on State Street and I have some turkey slices and pickles and olives. And a coworker gave me some bread, so we could make sandwiches or something.”

Esme beams at me. “That would be perfect.” 

I look up at the clock; it’s only a little after 7:15. 

“So, my coverage goes until 12:30,” I remind Esme and Edward. “Maybe you want to go home and take a shower?” I direct the question to Esme. She does look uncomfortable. I remember Emily talking about how bad nursing hurt, how the only relief from the ache was in the shower… 

Esme looks at Edward a little guiltily. “A shower sounds really nice.”

Edward turns and glowers at me. “What are we going to do about the show?”

I wave in Esme’s general direction. “Take care of your sister. Come pick me up at 12:30 and we can figure it out over food.”

Without waiting for confirmation, I head back to the air booth and close myself in. I switch the tape to Whitney Houston’s single from last year, “How Will I Know,” just to spite Edward on his way out. I finish up the set with Tina Turner’s cover of “Proud Mary” and peek into the main station space during the commercials to be sure Edward and Esme are gone. They are, and I am one with the waves once more.

When Shelley gets in, I’m more than ready to hand her the reins. 

“It’s been fun, Bellingham,” I say into the hot mic. “I’ll be back with you bright and early tomorrow morning. This has been Sheena, your favorite punk rocker and host of the morning show. Here’s a little story to tide you over until tomorrow.” 

I press play on the License to Ill tape by the Beastie Boys, which I cued up to “Paul Revere.” The whole album is pretty incredible, but the interaction between Ad-Rock, MCA, and Mike D in this rap ballad about how the group met is too sick not to play. 

I’m walking my bike from Arntzen Hall towards the south parking lot when a car horn beeps at me and I just about jump all the way to the moon. In the staff parking lot behind the building, I see Edward sitting in a gray Volvo sedan with the lights on and the windows rolled up. I don’t know where my bike is going to go.

I walk my bike to his car and knock on his window. He slowly winds down the window.

“How am I supposed to put my bike on this car?” I shout as he’s cranking the window lever. 

“Shh!” He hisses. The radio in the car is up loud; now that he has the window down a bit, I can hear that he’s listening to the student station. “Paul Revere” is still playing. I can’t suppress my smile. He’s listening to my set, and better yet, he’s enjoying it.

“I’m going to stash my bike in the radio station,” I whisper as Edward closes his eyes to focus on the music. I race downstairs with my bike and leave a note for Shelley as well as a note taped to the bike that I’ll find and kill anyone who touches it. Not that anyone will-- the rusty old thing is from the 1950s. I got it for $10 at a yard sale over near Lummi Island freshman year. It gets me places but it definitely doesn’t get me anywhere in style.

By some strange miracle, Edward is still waiting for me when I get back outside. The passenger door is unlocked. He gruffly asks me which dorm I live in and we drive to Mathes Hall in silence that isn’t quite companionable but isn’t hostile either. I expect him to stay in the car while I feel Nessie and grab our grub from the minifridge, but Edward locks up the car and follows me into the dorm. 

Nessie is waiting for me at the door, but she dodges my hand when I try to pet her in favor of weaving through Edward’s legs. The traitor! He indulgently strokes her as I pour her a little bowl of Friskies. 

“Here, Nessie,” I coo to her, wiggling my fingers to try to entice her to come my way for a quick cuddle. The little minx narrows her eyes at me and stays put at Edward’s side.

Alright, then. I’ll have to play dirty. 

“You named your cat after the Loch Ness Monster?” Edward asks as I pull out my wrapped cold cuts from the minifridge. I’m impressed he gets the reference.

“It’s complicated,” I say. I tear off a piece of the turkey and dangle it in front of my feet. Nessie pretends she isn’t interested in the cold meat, but I see her watching the flapping slice out of the corner of her eye. _Gotcha._ On a particularly tempting wave of the turkey, Nessie darts away from Edward and snatches the turkey from my fingers, circling my ankles gratefully. I scratch behind her ears and she purrs, just for her mama.

“I can understand complicated stuff,” Edward says petulantly. 

“Grab the jars of olives and pickles,” I tell Edward before I break it down for him. “Lauren-- that’s my roommate-- hates cats and called this little cutie a monster when I brought her home. And she’s a weird cat, so calling her the Loch Ness Monster just kind of stuck. Hence, Nessie.”

“How’s she weird?” Edward has the jars in his hands. I stuff the package of turkey slices, the baggie of cheese, the bread, and a bag of Cool Ranch Doritos into my backpack. 

“Hang out with me some more and you might just find out,” I say. I nod towards the door and follow Edward out. I can’t believe I just sort of invited Edward to hang out with me in the future. He barely wants to hang out with me now and I’m not entirely certain I want to hang out with him. I follow him back to the car, feeling a little flushed and thinking about how I sort of feel like there’s… something… connecting us. I don’t get it. I shake my head to clear the thoughts.

Edward’s house is north of campus by almost half a mile. The living room window doesn’t face the bay, which is a shame. The water is beautiful, just visible from the incline of the street. Esme opens the door expectantly and passes me a red plastic cup upon entry.

“I’m so glad you came!” Esme exclaims. She takes my backpack from me. “Let me get to work on some sandwiches for our Thanksgiving feast.” I take a sip from the cup and cough a bit-- it’s wine.

I’ve never had a glass of wine before. I’ve never smoked a joint before. When your father is the police chief, the opportunities to participate in small town tomfoolery are limited to begin with. When you’re shy-- like me-- they disappear completely. I’ve only had a beer at a house party last year, and it was hard to choke down. 

Edward, meanwhile, is chugging his wine like a pro. He finishes the cup, smacks his lips, then burps and doesn’t put a hand over his mouth to cover it. I’m more than a little disgusted.

“Puke, much?” I say without thinking. Instantly I’m mortified-- I’ve been invited to share a meal with Edward in his own home and I just insulted him. I want to die.

Instead of saying anything to make me feel even worse than I do, Edward licks his hand and sticks it in my face.

“Eww!” I cry. He grinds his hand against my cheek. It doesn’t hurt but it doesn’t feel nice.

“Edward, be nice!” Esme calls into the room. “Go get Bella a Band-Aid for her arm.”

Oh, right! The cold of the studio made it easy to forget that I fell off my bike this morning. Edward drops his hand from my face and scowls. 

“C’mon,” he says, and I follow him to the bathroom. Edward pulls a First-Aid kit from underneath the bathroom sink and gestures for me to turn and show him my arm. I sit on the toilet and he wipes over the scrape with an alcohol wipe, then coats it with a thin layer of Neosporin before sticking a large bandaid over it. His soft touch gives me goosebumps.

“Is that the only spot you’re hurt?” He asks. His voice is softer and even more smooth than it is on the radio; I can’t help but notice the great acoustics of the bathroom. I shake my head and before I can think better of it, I roll down my leggings to show him my scraped hip. Edward inhales sharply and for a second I think it’s because he can see my panties, but then I look down and see the mess of black and blue and crusted blood on my hip and realize he’s just feeling bad for me.

Gingerly, Edward pulls my panties out of the way so he can wipe the entire affected area down with alcohol. 

“I don’t think there’s a Band-Aid that can cover this whole spot,” Edward whispers. 

“It’s okay,” I say, but my voice is higher than normal. I clear my throat to try to bring it down.

I think I see Edward lick his lips as he smears the antibiotic ointment over my hip, but it also could have been a trick of the light. Bathrooms, right? I look away before I can hallucinate any further.

Once the cream is on, Edward’s fingers ghost over my hip, easing my panties back in place. I feel his touch linger a second longer, then he takes my leggings and rolls them back up over my hip. I feel like I’m submerged in a warm tub, like the two of us are floating in strange waters where everything is imaginary and the only real things are his hand and my hip and the place where they meet.

Then Esme calls to us and the moment is broken. Edward yanks his hand away from me and turns on his heel out of the room, leaving me breathing shallowly in his wake.

Esme makes a killer sandwich. Mine has turkey and pickles and cheese and crushed Doritos and a very light spread of mayo. Edward’s is lightly toasted with a mountain of cheese and pickles with some spicy mustard. I sip the wine between bites, watching as Edward and Esme finish the bottle of wine and move on to a small bottle of dark liquor.

We eat off plates we hold in our laps in the living room. The TV is on, playing old episodes of M*A*S*H* and providing background noise. It’s a cozy feeling and I almost feel at home here.

Edward seems way more relaxed with Esme than he does with me; their sibling dynamic is enviable. I remember all the times I wished I had a little brother or sister. Right before my parents divorced, when things were as bad as they’d ever get, Mom got drunk one night and hissed in my ear as she tucked me in for bed, “Thank God there’s only one of you. Otherwise I’d never get away from here.” It’s the worst thing she ever said to me, but eventually I got over it. She says she loves me, and she doesn’t remember saying anything like that. I choose to believe her.

Together, Edward and Esme explain the whole Chicago situation. I feel tears in my eyes and wipe them away. What a raw deal Esme’s got: to lose a husband and a baby all in one weekend. I also feel a sense of awe for Edward, that he would drop everything at once and go to his sister’s side. It hits me like a bolt of lightning, this feeling. It’s unfamiliar and electrifying.

After another cup of wine from another bottle, I realize that I’m a little drunk. I don’t say no when Edward tips a bit of the brown liquor into my cup, but I choke and cough up a lung upon taste.

Edward cracks up and Esme shames him for laughing at my inexperience. He fetches me a can of Dr. Pepper from the refrigerator and without offering the can to me, he opens it and dumps it in the cup on top of the liquor. I taste it; it’s not bad. It tastes sweet and smoky but with a harsh bite from the alcohol.

“Baby’s first Jack and Coke, huh?” Edward says. Didn’t he just pour me Dr. Pepper? I don’t get the reference, but I won’t let him out-quote me. 

“Nobody puts Baby in a corner!” I say a little louder than I planned.

“I think Bella has had enough to drink,” Esme says. She reaches for my cup but I yank it away, spilling a little in the process. I quickly chug the rest of it and-- to my embarrassment-- burp when I lower the cup from my mouth.

“Puke, much?” Edward says to me. So snarky. I make eye contact with him as I lick my hand and slowly bring it up to his face. I don’t realize until I’m rubbing it in his cheek that he had all the time in the world to move away-- that he _allowed_ me to touch his face even though my hand is all slobbery and disgusting.

Esme changes the channels on the TV until she finds a station playing _The Pink Panther._ Edward and I move from the floor to the couch but we settle on opposite ends. An hour into the movie, after another cup or two of Dr. Pepper and the liquor-- whiskey, they say, but I’ve lost track of how many drinks I’ve had so what does it even matter-- Esme retreats to a bedroom. My body feels warm and heavy and the couch is soft and comfortable. It feels like I’m being sucked into it. 

Edward offers me a sip of the whiskey straight from the bottle, and I try it. The burn in my throat as it goes down triggers another fit of coughing and Edward moves closer to me to slap me on the back. His touch gentles after the first smack, and by the time I’m calmed down he’s rubbing my back so softly. His hand stays there and I relax into his touch, somehow nuzzling close to his side.

By the time Inspector Clouseau is in handcuffs and being taken to jail, I’ve wormed my way down so that I’m lying on the couch with my head in Edward’s lap. It’s warm and comfortable and my body is hot and heavy. I feel glued to the couch, to Edward.

As the credits run, I look up at Edward. He’s asleep, his head tipped back to rest against the couch. His mouth is open and it looks like he’s got a little drool collecting at the side of his mouth. Disgustingly, I want to reach up to wipe the drool away and taste it, but my arm is weighted down. 

I feel the pull to close my eyes, to surrender to this loose and strange feeling. I don’t fight it. As I’m falling asleep, I think of the Beastie Boys’ song “No Sleep till Brooklyn.” Blearily, I make a plan to play it tomorrow for Edward-- on the radio.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun 80s stuff:  
> -Doritos Cool Ranch flavor was launched in '86.  
> -"Taps" was Tom Cruise's second movie role.  
> -Nicolas Cage was an absolute hottie in the 80s. I like him best in Valley Girl but he's a babe in Moonstruck and Raising Arizona too.  
> -OSHA was started in 1971. In 1986, Bellingham had fewer than 50,000 residents, the majority of which were affiliated with the university. Safe working procedures weren't a priority there, and even if they were, OSHA most likely would not have been involved.  
> -Lastly, a note about Forks, WA. I've been a resident of Washington all my life (except for a few stints living abroad) and I grew up super close to the Olympic Peninsula. Forks was the crappy gas-stop town by Lake Crescent where I used to go camping. The most exciting thing I saw happen there were two knife fights within the same night at the gas station across from the Chinese restaurant. Before Twilight, it most certainly was a place where teens got pregnant early, because there was nothing to do there but drink and fuck around. Also, La Push is a full hour (at least) away from Forks, and in my experience the townspeople weren't too keen on the reservation, so the feelings that the werewolves had about the Cullens would have been the feelings of the townspeople about those living on the res. Not nice.   
> I want to do Forks justice in portraying it honestly; it's not some quaint little spot that just worked as a setting for Twilight. It's a real place and although I haven't been back since 2005 or 2006, I try to depict the Forks that I knew and grew up with, just as I do with Bellingham and Seattle and New York (all places I've written about). So Bella's opinion of Forks being lame and boring is, in my experience, correct.


	4. Do Unto Others

**November 28, 1986**

**5:08 AM**

**Edward**

“You’re listening to the Master, DJ E.A.,” I announce at 5:08. I’ve already played “Cemetry Gates” by the Smiths, “I Wanna Be Your Boyfriend” by the Ramones, and a great live cut of “Dream On” by Aerosmith. I always feel good about my mixes, but today something is a little off. I’m weighted down by heavy chains of guilt for leaving Bella behind at my house so I could take back my morning show. It wasn’t my normal 4:50 alarm, but my sister fumbling with the clock in my bedroom that woke me up this morning. I was uncomfortable: a full bladder, numb legs, a stiff neck, a mild hangover… all because of _her._ Sheena. Bella. My usurper. Who happened to have a pretty smile and good taste in snacks and hair that smelled like Razzles. And who slept like a log, apparently, seeing as she didn’t stir at all when I nudged her sweet smelling head out of my lap to get to the station on time.

Except I’m not thinking about Bella, because she sucks at radio and she likes stupid new age shit. I’m not thinking about how dumb it is that I judge her for liking new age shit when I like some new age music. I’m not thinking about her own collection of cassettes that I peeped yesterday in her dorm. I’m not thinking about the stuff I didn’t recognize or how badly I wanted to listen to it, or how I still feel bad that I didn’t wake her up to let her finish out the week of morning shows that I’m suspecting Emmett promised her. And I’m definitely not thinking about how easy to be around she was when we weren’t bickering, how she made Esme smile and feel better. Or how cute and funny she is. No, I’m only thinking about the tunes.

“Good morning Bellingham. I hope everyone had a nice Thanksgiving yesterday.” I pause for a beat. “Who am I kidding? I don’t hope that.” I play a clip from _Rambo_ where Sly says “There are no friendly civilians!” and immediately play “Butthole Surfer” by the Butthole Surfers. I follow it up with some Whitesnake and “Black Magic Woman” by Santana. It’s a decent mix, sure, but it’s nothing like when I’m really on my game. I try to blame that on the fuzz of my hangover, but I’ve definitely worked mornings where I was still borderline blackout drunk and been a better DJ. 

“It sure is good to be back with all you hamsters,” I say at a quarter past six, after I’ve run a few taped commercials. I’m taking a deep breath to start talking for a minute when I hear a voice behind me and nearly shit my pants out of surprise.

“Is it?!” 

I whip around-- it’s Bella, and she looks _pissed._ Her hair is all crazy and her face is red with excitement, with the tip of her nose and two dots on her cheeks standing out like cherry tomatoes on top of… something that’s hot pink. So I suck at metaphors. Sue me.

“I’m on air--”

“I can see that.” Bella is staring daggers into my skull and my headache gives a mighty throb from her psychic warfare. I want to wince back but I hold my own in my rightful place. Her voice is muffled through the headphones, so I pull them down around my neck. Seeing her here, her face indignant with betrayal and fury, I feel off balance. I’ve never felt that way while on air before. This little booth has been my sanctuary against the frustration and general BS of college and girls and roommates and Reagan. Now that I’ve spent nearly a week off the air, dealing with real life problems like a dumped sister who just lost a baby, I’m out of whack. The presence of a pretty-- albeit frustrating-- rival host isn’t making this any easier on me. I whip back around to gather my courage again. 

“Here’s the Carpenters,” I mumble into the mic, then play “Superstar.” I square my shoulders and face Bella again.

“Listen up, Sheena,” I say as coldly as I can manage. “It’s my show. You’ve been a guest. I got here on time, I’ll run the show. You can go home now.”

Bella’s eyes bug out at me. “You got me drunk on purpose so I’d miss the morning sign on!”

“Hey, no, you’ve got it all wrong--”

“Oh, I’m so sure!” She says, her pitch rising. “You got me drunk, you made me fall asleep in your house and then you left me there so you could steal the show that _I_ was asked to host _for the foreseeable future!”_

As she’s yelling at me, I spy tears welling in her eyes. One slips out and she angrily wipes it away from her face. I’m looking at her in horror; I hate seeing girls cry, and God knows this week has been full of that with Esme--

“Shut up!” Bella cries even though I haven’t said anything. “I’m crying because I’m so angry with you, I’m furious-- how dare you--”

“Stop, please,” I beg. I’m wringing my hands because I don’t want to fall into my bad habit of tearing at my hair when I’m stressed out, and Bella’s emotion is certainly stressing me out. My stomach hurts with the discomfort of upsetting a girl, and even though _she’s_ the interloper on _my_ territory, she’s making me feel like I’ve got it all twisted around.

Bella clamps her mouth shut. She’s standing there, legs spread, arms crossed, tears still spilling over. The only thing nailing me to my seat is my sense of ownership over the morning air. It’s mine. I’ve worked hard to earn this time and you couldn’t pay me to give it up to this half-rate nerd, but that doesn’t take away the persistent feeling that I might be in the wrong right now. It’s so awkward right now that I want to puke but I get the idea that if I were to puke she’d just steal my show again, and I can’t let her do that. 

The song comes to an end and Bella looks pointedly at the microphone. It’s bad radio to keep interrupting music sets, but I let a beat of silence ring out over the air, then I flip the switch and take up the mic.

“Alright, Bellingham, this is the Master, DJ E.A. You’re listening to KWWU, the only station north of Seattle that plays anything worth listening to.” I play a dialogue clip from _Airplane!_ \-- The “surely you can’t be serious” bit between Robert Hays and Leslie Nielsen. I chance a peek at Bella and see that her lips are quirked up in a tiny smile, which eases my discomfort a bit. I want her to not be mad just as much as I want her to go away and leave me alone to do my show in peace. I’m just not sure how to make either of those things happen.

I want to say something else but I can’t figure out what to say, so I just put on Tears for Fears. “Everybody Wants to Rule the World.” It’s a good track, and it fits the mood between me and Bella. Whoever runs the morning show has such an impact on how the day goes; the morning show sets the tone for everyone waking up and tuning into the radio. It’s a privilege to play the first real set of the day and it’s one that I won’t give up without a fight. 

Bella puts her hand on my shoulder. 

“Can I make a request?” 

I nod hesitantly. 

“Play the Buggles.” My jaw drops. _“Video Killed the Radio Star?!”_ Hell, no!

“I can’t play that song.” 

Bella shoots me a pointed look, but I don’t back down.

“I just don’t play music like that,” I try to reason with her, playing like I don’t understand what she’s trying to tell me through the music. 

“You play the Village People,” she says. I cringe. She’s not wrong, but I don’t want to cave. I am the star of the mornings and she doesn’t have any right trying to prove otherwise. I confront all these weird feelings at war inside me by getting mean.

“I don’t expect a bogus groupie like you to understand comedy,” I say, turning back to the mic. And then she yanks my headphones backwards off my head. My ears are ringing with shock. Bella steps closer in the booth, seething. 

“What’s your damage?!” Bella looks like she might actually smack me. 

“Listen, I get that Emmett made some bogus promise to you, but this is still my show--”

“Call him!” Bella insists. She slaps the phone on the desk towards me, knocking the handle loose from the receiver. I scoff at her.

“I mean it!” Bella pushes the phone at me again. I nudge the phone away, blowing her off, but Bella pushes the phone at me again. She crowds me against the desk and I wince away from her.

“Alright, alright!” I agree, not ready to get into it physically with a girl. God, she’s annoying. I wish she’d just go away, but there’s something warm pooling in my belly about being so close to her and so up in arms at the same time. Do I… Do I _like_ fighting with her? What’s wrong with me?

Tears for Fears is getting close to wrapping up the song, so I move to switch tape decks to play something else but Bella bats my hand away from the controls.

“Hey!”

“Call Emmett on the air,” Bella says. “Over the speaker phone.”

She can’t be serious.

“No.”

“Yes. Do it.”

I don’t have time to respond, since Bella flips the mic switch just as the song starts to fade out. 

“Good morning, Bellingham,” she says into the mic, her on-air voice huskier and more in control than her regular talking voice. “This is Sheena, queen of the jungle, your favorite punk rocker. This morning, DJ E.A. and I have a little treat for you. We’re going to be calling up our boss and seeing which of us has true dominion over the morning airwaves. What do you say, E.A.? You ready to take the plunge?”

I can’t think of anything clever to say. Bella takes up the handle of the phone and dials Emmett’s number, listed in red ink on the little index card taped to the brown Formica desk. She punches the buttons to play the call through the phone’s speaker. My stomach drops with each ring.

“Hello?” A man’s scratchy, sleepy voice comes through the phone. I recognize the voice-- it’s Emmett’s roommate, the weird dude who looks like he mopes for a living.

“Hi,” Bella says directly into the mic. “I’m calling for Emmett, is he around?”

“What time is it?” The guy asks. Bella grabs my arm and checks my watch. I rip my arm away from her. I’m both stunned and fuming that this is happening on the radio.

“It’s 6:33 on this fine Friday morning,” Bella answers, sounding both chipper and kind of sultry. “We’re calling from KWWU, Western Washington’s only station playing the gospel truth.”

“Huh?” The guy is puzzled. “Oh, wait, are you that girl that plays the Cure and calls it God’s word?” 

Bella scoffs in mock offense. “Excuse me, I’m _Sheena._ Like the punk rocker. I’m certainly not the White Rabbit.”

“Oh, yeah,” the guy says. “Why are you calling so early?”

“We’re calling for Emmett,” I say, finally finding my voice.

“He’s at his girlfriend’s house, I think,” the guy says. “I can get you the number, but it’s pretty early, you guys…”

“Actually,” Bella interrupts. “Could you settle a debate for us? I’m here with DJ E.A. and we’re trying to determine which of us is the better morning show host. I’ve been covering this guy’s ass all week which _clearly_ makes me not only the better host but the better person. Can I count on you to support my reign as the morning show queen?”

“Well,” the guy says, “I’m not really a morning person. I don’t listen to the show.”

“Which makes him ineligible to vote either way,” I jump in to point out.

“But,” the guy continues, “you, Sheena, were the one to call and wake me up, so my vote’s for DJ E.A.”

“Haha!” I shout, as Bella sits down _on the chair I’m still sitting in._ She hip bumps me over so my ass is half off the seat.

“Well, by your logic, this guy’s vote shouldn’t count,” Bella says to me. “Since he doesn’t listen to the show anyway.”

“That was before I could determine that he had good taste,” I argue. The guy chuckles over the line.

“Who are we speaking with, by the way?” I ask. The guy laughs again. 

“I’m Jasper,” he says. 

“Are you a student, Jasper?”

“Yeah. I’m studying anthropology but I almost majored in social psychology.”

“Like Indiana Jones?” Bella asks. I can’t believe it, but this is good radio. This rapport we have… it’s working.

“Kind of. But I care more about the environment than I do about artifacts. I want to save the planet.”

“How noble,” I say sarcastically. Bella shoots me a glare.

“It is noble,” she argues. “Any tips on how we can save the planet, Jasper?”

“Well,” Jasper begins, “I run a club called Students for a Sustained Future. We host dinners once a month and talk about what we can do about this global heat crisis we’re facing. And we have a student vegetable garden, people are always welcome to sign up for shifts maintaining that.”

“What kind of dinners do you guys host?” I ask. 

“We do all-vegetarian dinners. They’re free to the public, I don’t know why more students don’t come to them.”

“All vegetarian?” Bella asks. “How handy. DJ E.A. right here is a vegetarian.”

“Right on, dude!” Jasper says enthusiastically. “I’ve been veggie since I was 8. Eating animals just isn’t right.”

“No,” I agree. I want to smack Bella over revealing my dietary status on the air, but Jasper, despite being a weirdo, is kind of cool in his own right. His validation makes the sting of embarrassment much less potent.

“And it’s so much better for the planet. Do you even know how much water it takes to sustain _one_ cow?” 

“I think we’ll have to call you back and find out later,” Bella says. “Thanks very much for talking to us this morning, Jasper. Happy Thanksgiving.”

“Don’t wish me happiness on a racist, colonial bullshit holiday,” Jasper says.

“Woah! Don’t say the ‘S’-word!” Bella shouts. “We gotta go. We’ll talk to you later.” Bella hangs up on Jasper and throws the switch to play the next tape-- “Don’t You Forget About Me” by Simple Minds. It’s a clunky switch, but it does the job of getting us off the air.

“What the hell were you thinking?!” I say louder than I need to, considering Bella’s thigh is mashed up against mine. The close quarters of the air booth feel even tighter than they do when I’m squeezed in here with Emmett, who’s no delicate flower. Both Bella and I smell a little fresh from a night of drinking and eating salty stuff, but having her pressed up against my side makes the temperature of the room bearable. I’m not disgusted by the light tang in the air of her sweat; she doesn’t smell bad at all, just a little stale with a faint whiff of raspberry. It’s weirdly intoxicating.

“I’m thinking that we just had some solid air right there.”

I can’t disagree with her. She might be onto something, this calling people on the air… 

“I’m going to go look at some other tapes I want to bring in here. You can drive, but I get a say in what we’re playing.” Bella gets up and shimmies out of the chair, closing the air booth door behind her. I can’t believe I’m letting this nobody boss me around. I fade “Don’t You Forget About Me” into “Young Americans” by Bowie and work out how I’m going to argue Bella out of the studio. 

When I got my spot on the air, I wanted the show to be all about _music._ I tried to incorporate the best of the DJs I’d grown up loving into my show-- the mixing that Bob Crane made popular before he was on _Hogan’s Heroes_ and the varied sound that Bob West played before KRAB shut down in ’84. I didn’t want to cover sports, but I wanted my voice to be as loved as Dave Niehaus; I only went to Mariners games when my dad was in town because listening to Niehaus announce them was better than watching the actual play. I wanted to be the guy who was all about the music. I had to be that guy. I still have to.

Bella gets back with a stack of cassettes and a second pair of headphones. She gestures for me to scoot over on the chair to make room for her and I do, begrudgingly. I can’t say no to her and I don’t know why. I’ve never had problems setting boundaries before, but this girl gets under my skin and into my space before I’m able to gather my defenses.

“Play this next,” she says, swatting a tape over to me for approval. “The Age of Quarrel” by the Cro-Mags. I’ve never heard of this band or this record. I raise my eyebrows at her.

“How do I know this doesn’t suck?”

Bella smiles. “Trust me. You’re going to like them.” 

I don’t want to, but I insert the tape into the open deck. When Bowie ends, I flip the switch and heavy metal guitar blares into my headphones. Bella plugs her headphones into the second audio jack and leans back in the chair as I lean forward, my fingers coming together in a tent on the desk as I focus on the gnarly drums and thick guitar riffs.

The intro is long, but the song is _good._ Head-banging good. It’s the type of music I like to hear live, punk and metal and angry and gritty. I can’t help but shake my shoulders a little to the beat until the guitar solo comes in and melts my face off. 

I turn to look at Bella. I think my admiration is crystal clear; she’s smiling this smug little smile that shouldn’t be cute, but it is. I let the next track play, too impressed to try and find something new.

“Where did you find these guys?” I ask, clutching my headphones to my head. I don’t want to stop listening to the record. It’s that good.

Bella shrugs. “My dad got me the tape for my birthday. He thought I’d like them, and I do.”

My opinion of her music taste goes up, to my chagrin. I don’t want to like her. It’s going to make kicking her off my show that much harder on me. I almost wish she hadn’t shared this find with me, but I see that she looks a little weird. I pull down my headphones to talk.

“What’s wrong?” 

Bella chews her lip. “I forgot to call my dad yesterday. To wish him a happy Thanksgiving.”

I nudge the phone at her. “Call him.”

“What, like… on the air?” Bella looks at me like I’m insane. I nod.

“You called Emmett on-air. Why not call your dad?”

“Because Emmett is Emmett. And my dad is my dad,” Bella says slowly, like I’m stupid. I grin at her.

“You said I get to drive. I say you call your dad after commercial.” 

Bella looks me over hard, her jaw tightening as she nods to accept the dare. The second Cro-Mags song comes to a close, and I play a few commercials for local businesses before taking up the mic.

“Alright, Bellingham, we’re approaching the top of the 7:00 hour,” I announce. “We’ve got someone here in studio who forgot to make a very important phone call yesterday. Sheena, care to explain?”

“Shut up, it’s not that important,” Bella says into the mic. “I forgot to call my dad about the holiday. I feel bad.”

“Well, now’s the perfect time to call him!” I say jovially. I play a sound effect of birds chirping. “Nothing like a good, old-fashioned, morning radio wake-up call!”

“Ha ha,” Bella says. “He’ll be up. No rest for the wicked, and all that.”

“Stop stalling and start calling,” I cajole. Bella glares at me and dials her home phone number. It rings once before her dad picks up.

“Hello?” He sounds gruff over the speakerphone. I don’t think Bella told me much about her parents yesterday, but I’d never guess that a guy that sounds like this would buy his daughter a Cro-Mags tape.

“Hi, Dad,” Bella says.

“Hi, Bells!” He says. He sounds happy. Bella’s face melts at his greeting. She’s got on a smile that’s complete. Last night, even though she seemed happy enough at my place, there was something a little reserved about her. Seeing her like this does something to my heartbeat, but it also gives me a pang of poignant longing for my parents, which makes me feel embarrassed that I’m twenty and still wanting someone to baby me.

“I’m sorry I didn’t call yesterday,” Bella says. “I just wanted to wish you a happy Thanksgiving.”

“You had me worrying for a minute,” her dad says. “I knew you wouldn’t ever just _not_ call her old man on Thanksgiving, but I also knew that nobody in Bellingham could take you in a fight, so…”

“Oh, stop that,” Bella says. “I was at a friend’s house.”

“A friend?” Her dad sounds genuinely puzzled at this. “When was the last time you told me about a friend?” I watch with horror as Bella’s face reddens with humiliation. 

“It’s a new thing. Look, Dad, I’ve gotta go. I’ll call you later.”

“Really?” Her dad sounds disappointed. “So soon?”

“Yeah, sorry, I’m kind of in the middle of hosting a radio show,” Bella says. 

“Oh, no problem. You get back to work, kiddo. I love you.”

“Love you too, Dad.”

I hang up the phone for Bella. She’s looking intently at the desk, ignoring that I’m staring at her. I think I see tears in her eyes again, but I’m not sure. I don’t want to risk her crying on me again, so I do something drastic.

I play Cyndi Lauper.

Bella looks up at me as the pop-synth beats of “Girls Just Wanna Have Fun” play through her headphones. She lowers them slowly and I do the same.

We’re both quiet for a moment, just listening to Cyndi play softly out of our abandoned headphones. 

“I’m sorry,” I finally say. 

“Me too,” she says.

It’s a little awkward between us. But for right now, it’s enough.

We both jump when the phone rings as I let Bella fade “Girls Just Wanna Have Fun” into “I’m Still Standing” by Elton John. I answer it on speaker after checking to make sure the mic isn’t live.

“Hello?”

“Ed,” Emmett says on speaker. “I think you just found yourself a new producer.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title song is "Do Unto Others" by the Cro-Mags. Here are some notes!  
> -Razzles are a candy… then a gum. They were first introduced in the 60s and only available in raspberry flavor until 1986. You probably know them from 13 Going on 30.  
> -Transplants of Bellingham sometimes refer to one another as “hamsters” because they live in the ‘Ham. When I first moved there I called it Bellinghole. I thought I was so funny.  
> -The first “Rambo” movie isn’t called “Rambo” at all- it’s called “First Blood,” but upon release virtually everyone referred to it as “Rambo,” the last name of Sylvester Stallone’s protagonist.  
> -So, according to the timeline of this fic, Edward wasn’t alive when Bob Crane was a radio disc jockey. But considering Edward’s interest in radio, he would know that Crane is often credited as the first modern disc jockey, who revolutionized sampling (playing clips of things unrelated to radio on the radio) and paved the way for radio hosts to become more than just the guys playing the tunes. Sampling made radio possible for people who weren’t voice actors to make shows similar in quality to ones like Adrian Cronauer’s— you can see his story in the classic ’87 flick “Good Morning Vietnam.”  
> -Bob West (not the voice actor) was an ethnomusicologist and a radio pioneer in Seattle. His career started in 1966— the year our Edward and Bella were born.  
> -Dave Niehaus was the voice of the Seattle Mariners— he broadcast (just about) every game from 1977 until his death in 2010. He was so revered in Seattle that a street was named after him following his death, and he was featured on the post-SNL Seattle-based show “Almost Live!”— That show, coincidentally, is where Joel McHale (of Community) got his start on TV, and it’s also considered the birthplace of the now iconic show “Bill Nye the Science Guy” which filmed frequently at my high school. "Almost Live!" ran from '84-'99.


End file.
